I kept you close,
kept in clover and kissed, gently as you awoke each morning,
but you couldn’t feel my affections, you couldn’t conceive my closeness.
These are things that can never be enough.
Not my endless, boundless love,
not my promises of forever faithfulness,
not all the money I had,
the mad way that I adored you,
the way that I pleaded,
or the way that I stayed, stuck in place, by your side.
I grew used to the shadows of our bedroom,
shrouded in satin solitude and the strangled sobs of your darkness,
the window sills still weeping,
clutching lilies in their hands as you held a pillow to your head,
howling into the night for me to return,
and all I could do was stare,
my love, transparent and without expectation,
unconditional devotion that went unnoticed.
All you could do was stare,
out of the window to the soft grass that surrounded sturdy stone.
My place of rest, where I lay restless,
rising and wandering,
staring from shadowy corners in silence,